Pierre, with a meaning glance from his half-closed eyes, added: "But it
is the old saying of the prairies that you do not shout dinner till you
have your knife in the loaf. Your knife is not yet in the loaf, Shon
McGann."

The boom of the trampling ceased, and now there was a stirring in the
snow-clad tree tops, and a sound as if all the birds of the North were
flying overhead. The weather began to moan and the boles of the pines to
quake. And then there came war,--a trouble out of the north, a wave of
the breath of God to show inconsequent man that he who seeks to live by
slaughter hath slaughter for his master.

They hung over the fire while the forest cracked round them, and the
flame smarted with the flying snow. And now the trees, as if the
elements were closing in on them, began to break close by, and one
lurched forward towards them. Trafford, to avoid its stroke, stepped
quickly aside right into the line of another which he did not see.
Pierre sprang forward and swung him clear, but was himself struck
senseless by an outreaching branch.

As if satisfied with this achievement, the storm began to subside. When
Pierre recovered consciousness Trafford clasped his hand and said,--
"You've a sharp eye, a quick thought, and a deft arm, comrade."

"Ah, it was in the game. It is good play to assist your partner," the
half-breed replied sententiously. Through all, the Indian had remained
stoical. But McGann, who swore by Trafford--as he had once sworn by
another of the Trafford race--had his heart on his lips, and said:

"There's a swate little cherub that sits up aloft,